


A Bard's Unfinished Musings

by UnfinishedProject



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Drinking, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Missing Scene, Not Really Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Prompt Fill, Some Humor, Witcher Friendships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnfinishedProject/pseuds/UnfinishedProject
Summary: July prompt fill collection from r/Fanfiction.A couple of shorts focusing on the witchers & friends. Not much plot or continuity.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Vesemir & Eskel & Lambert & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Kudos: 15





	1. An Ale in Good Company

**Author's Note:**

> Read the entirety of prompts [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/FanFiction/comments/hj6rrv/structured_shorts_daily_prompts_july_2020/).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 1st// Framing Devices!  
> Contains spoilers or rather, references my other work's [(Flames and Silver)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829486) first two chapter.

Nothing changed in the past months since he set out on The Path from Kaer Morhen — Vesemir was still old, Lambert still prickly and Geralt; Geralt was trying to forget whatever trouble a sorceress caused on the bottom of a tankard. 

"Eskel, my child." Vesemir was the first to greet him, pulling him into an abrupt hug that seemed to grow longer with each passing year. From somewhere a mug was passed along to him, filled to the brim with frothy ale — everything was given for a night of exchanging tales of their experiences. 

He listened attentively to Lambert's bounties, interjecting good-natured mockery every now and then to Geralt's amusement and to a lesser extent to Vesemir's disapproval. Geralt mostly recited stories that without a fault ended up in either someone's bed or with Dandelion further complicating already difficult tasks. The good old times, though all of them could bring it up, was almost religiously reserved for Vesemir — sharing experiences from monster hunts and stories about their training days. 

"New scar, I see. Let me guess, another succubus." It was tempting to splash the last of his drink into Lambert's face — but that would dishonour whatever merit earned him that singular moment of compassion. He only shook his head as Geralt poked the other's side as some kind of congratulation, and Vesemir placed a heavy hand onto his shoulder like in his childhood days when anger occasionally flared in him. _Witchers stay neutral_ — but they don't have to be indifferent. 

"Y'know, that river on the Lyria-Angren border?" They all did, all of them crossing the Northern Kingdoms many times from the south where the Empire of Nilfgaard started to the mountains north of Kovir; just a simple way of starting his story. "A village there had a vodnik problem..."


	2. Memoirs and Disputes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 2nd//Building on yesterday's prompt, write a scene as a non-fiction entry in an in-universe encyclopedia or history book equivalent. Include as many sarcastic footnotes as you wish. (200 words)
> 
> You're getting two as I couldn't decide between the entries.  
> Also, SPOILERS for The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt.

_**Vesemir**_ , b. cca. 10691-1272, last mentor of the School of the Wolf at Kaer Morhen, survivor of at least two pogroms on witchers and cause of a certain collection of witcher memorabilia2. Oldest presently known witcher and father to many though not by blood — rumours say the case is so only due to the nature of mutations. After the massacre at Kaer morhen, he rose to the rank of second-in-command though only a fencing instructor before; transitioning to the position of grandmaster upon release from imprisonment. Lost his life in the defence of Kaer Morhen against the Wild Hunt, contributing to a temporary victory and the survival of the Lion Cub of Cintra3. 

1 Exact date is unknown, Lambert thought it hilarious.  
2 On account of one respectable lady of Oxenfurt, who wishes to remain unidentified.  
3 Main article, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon

From _A Brief History of the Witchers of Kaer Morhen_ by Eskel 

* * *

As stated before, the hypothesis that witchers are _"diabolic creations, fit only for killing"_ (sic!) has been proven wrong on many account. Their disinterest, or neutrality as they prefer, is not from a hatred or indifference towards humans and their suffering but a simple fact of their lifestyle; a hundred years to them is but like a decade to us, mere mortals. I had the rare opportunity to witness many of their deeds, and, as you, dear reader, surely know, I aimed to dissolve above stated misconceptions with many of my works.  
To further support my claim, let me ask you this; was it not the witchers who had taken orphans with them? Who created a home for those their own family couldn't? Kaer Morhen, though through practices many state to be questionable or inhumane, even, provided a chance at life. They are monsters, you say, but who, if not you with those prejudices are the foul ones?

An excerpt from Dandelion's _A Correction to Monstrum, or about the true nature of witchers_


	3. A Questionable Audience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 3rd// Prologues

The tavern was filled with noise of all kind as the bard stepped onto the stage. Someone knocked over a tankard and swore loudly, women of all ages whispered against themselves — but even the howling hound on the porch outside went quiet when the bard softly strummed his lute. 

"Master Dandelion, sing us a song of true love." A burly man swore at the suggestion of a maiden who relentlessly tugged at her blouse while a mischievous smile was plastered onto crimson lips with an unmistakable meaning behind every action. Dandelion pretended not to notice though the maiden was rather charming given the audience — he had a new work, one he could finally tell in its entirety. 

"We will get to that," he offered as an appeasement to both parties. "But let me start with tales of the White Wolf, of Geralt of Rivia you surely heard off. A ballad of pain and love, of wars and family, of struggle and endurance. A tale that started decades ago when the Lioness of Cintra requested the services of the witcher, on that fateful night when reciting the Law of Surprise granted him his Destiny."


	4. A Friend to Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 4th// Cold opens

His fingers now bent into the correct position swiftly, a reflex after so many years of practice and use — but it wasn't always like that. In the beginning, when Kaer Morhen was still loud from mischievous novices and disgruntled instructors, he had better chances of knocking down an opponent by his blade or a tackle. 

_"No, like that." It was barely sunrise when they snuck out to the courtyard, him and Geralt, to practice. Pale fingers now held his, helping him keep it in the right angle. "I'm going to let go and you keep it, good?"_

_"Geralt, I can't. It feels like my fingers will break." He concentrated on the chicken that overnight escaped from a coop but it walked around, clucking unbothered and unstopped. "I will never learn it."_

That, as it turned out was a lie, even if not intentional. It was clear he had higher affinity for magic than most; and once he learnt all the Signs, there was hardly anything that wasn't susceptible to its effects. The harpy, that desperately clawed at the ground where it was stuck, reminded him very much of that escaped chicken — only this beast wouldn't live long enough for the magic to fade.


	5. Death Before Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 5th//Altered setting
> 
> It's a lot darker than most chapters are or will be.
> 
> The change is, the Sunstone managed to unite the elves. Now humans are outnumbered.
> 
> TW: Mention of suicide, murder & torture

Twigs caught in his gambeson, thicket scratched white lines like lightning bolts into the leather of his boots. Most of his men were dead at the hand of the the elvish special forces. _Scoia'tael, they called themselves._ Vernon Roche could spit just at the thought of them — and he would've if he was in a position to. 

He's pressed against the trunk of an old oak as soon he heard the rustle of leaves; probably just the wind, the elf commando never made a sound. A sigh of relief blew from his chapped lips when the forest quieted again without having a blade against his throat or a yellow-feathered arrow sticking out of his chest. He waited a split second longer before continuing his way northward; though it was hard to follow any direction in the dense undergrowth. 

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword though by the time he could unsheath it, Iorveth or one of his archers would've already loosened the string. _Unless they want him alive,_ a cold, leering voice echoed in his mind. He had a high enough rank as King Foltest's trusted adviser that he'd have more value as a prisoner. The torture, that ran rampant under Eredin's reign, was infamous across the continent — from Kovir to Nilfgaard, from Cidaris to Lyria everybody heard of the horrors of the dungeons and everybody saw what became of the corpses. 

They wanted to know where Foltest was hiding, the last of the human kings who opposed the expansion of the unified Aen Elle and Aen Seidhe before their attention would turn to the south, to the Empire of Nilfgaard. But Vernon Roche was loyal to his country, to his king and he would never betray his given word; he'd sooner cut his own throat than allow for his capture. 

He hoped it wouldn't come to that, he was only a mile from the river along which lied a keep, still manned by the Temerian Army. He could rest there, treat his wounds and replenish his stocks before continuing onward. According to the last report, Ves was pushed back to the east of Carreas with the last of her forces; still a good four days of walk away from him. A horse was a luxury and so was the use of roads riding would limit him to; no, he couldn't risk capture. 

Vernon Roche was a humble man and an excellent warrior — and the fate of humans might as well laid in his hands.


	6. Va'esse Eigh Faidh'ar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 6th// Inciting Incident
> 
> The title means "Something begins".

If it was possible, he'd say Geralt was even paler than his usual complexion when he stumbled back down to the dining hall. His hands trembled ever so slight and uncharacteristic of a witcher. He didn't ask anything, just pushed a goblet across the table — he was coming from Ciri. Her screams echoed in nightmares as it echoed in the deserted keep and shuddered the glass panels in the windows. But Geralt's been gone longer than it usually took to calm her — he knew, one time he was the one to sooth her before the Wolf arrived. It could only mean one thing — another trance. 

"It's getting worse, Eskel." _Neutral. Unfeeling._ The words crossed his mind; the virtues of witchers. But there was anything but indifference in the golden eyes that gazed at him or the tired, raspy voice. He was worried for the girl — they all were — but Geralt loved her like the daughter he could never have. "She's..." 

"She talked. She made sense." And whatever she said was enough to scare him, more so than before. He reached out, giving the exposed, scarred and pale forearm a light squeeze; he had Geralt since childhood and Geralt had him. There was a weak nod, fingers playing with the chain of his medallion — hesitating to say more. "It's all right. We'll ask Vesemir in the morning." 

"What do you need to ask me about?" Lambert was strolling behind Vesemir, visibly disgruntled that he was dragged out of bed — while the other paid him and his muttered swearing no mind. When they were small, it was scary how he always seemed to appear out of nowhere; but since they've seen more use of it than problems. 

"Ciri." He spoke instead of Geralt who was staring off into the distance as the other two settled on the benches. Lambert shut up at that finally, raising an eyebrow but he could only offer a shrug — he didn't know more either. There was a moment of silence, heavier than a foot of snow that covers the keep each winter. 

"She talked of death. A battle." Geralt wasn't looking at anyone but he stopped twisting the chain around his neck. They all knew that the girl somehow found her way out of a besieged city and saw horrors on the borderlands; it seemed as a continuation of her nightmares. "I assumed Cintra and the Black Knight until... until she talked about Coën. Mortal wounds, Temeria. She wasn't too specific." 

Another silence. Witchers, by nature, were quiet, didn't talk much unless drunk — but the silence was deafening. There was no sound, not even outside where winds alway blew, where rats squeaked or the horses kicked in the stables — nothing, as if time stopped, already mourning a death. 

"There was more." It was hard, if not impossible, to hide something from Vesemir. He's known them too well, for so long that he could understand unspoken words, read in unblinking eyes. Geralt nodded, reached for his medallion again then dropped his gaze onto his lap. 

"She foretold my death, too."


	7. New Adventures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 7th// First memory

Dark. The room was dark and quiet but he still shadows as sharp as if the midnight sun shone through the windows and he could hear his roommate's soft breathes as if he was lying flush against him. He was still in his bed though, staring up at the same old ceiling he's fallen asleep under for years. He survived then. 

"Geralt?" No reply, then a grunt. For a moment he thought it was a ghost he saw before the golden eyes of witchers' stared back at him. _Don't show emotions_ , he recalled some faraway lesson but he didn't care. Not when he not too gracefully fell from the bed due to the tangle of sheets or when his arms, scrawny still, wrapped around him. 

"It's all right. We... we made it, Eskel." They did but new adventures and real training would just now began.


	8. Rocky Beginnings to a Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 8th// First Meetings (Dual POVs)

It was late autumn when he and Gerlat returned to Kaer Morhen, spending the past month together on the Path. They weaved through the outer courtyard, dodging training swords of the younglings or misdirected Signs — taking turns to elbow each other in the side and snicker at the lack of experience. 

"Look at that one." The boy pointed out to him looked as average as they came; black hair, brown eyes — but with a fiery hatred for the dummy. His hits were all over the place, haphazard — and he would be dead not two slashes in if it was a real opponent. "Vesemir has his work cut out for him." 

"Don't be a dick, Geralt. You weren't any better at his age." Slapping the arm of his friend, he let him go on to the keep while he remained on the courtyard longer. He's seen that anger before, Surprises often reacted that way to sudden changes in lifestyle — having outgrown those emotions, he felt sorry for them. "Don't leave such a wide opening when you parry." 

"I don't need your help." Of course, they never did — and then, at dinner, complained that Vesemir lectured them about footwork, parries, evades or pirouettes. Shaking his head, he expected a begrudging change of mind — but there was only another flurry of thrusts and cuts, grumbles and swears following. 

* * *

_It was unfair. He was no one's Surprise. He didn't belong here. He didn't **want** to be here. No one even cared about him._

His thoughts were punctured with angry stabs at the dummy — without a face it was just as stupid looking as his father. Too consumed in his rage, he didn't even notice the senior witchers returning to the keep until one of them came over to offer his _wisdom_. 

"I don't need your help." He probably just came to leer at him. They all did, those he met so far. Yet, he just leant against a wall, silent; watching him without any intention of correcting him again — or leaving. It was unnerving, feeling the yellow eyes on the back of his neck but he was determined not to show his frustration; he wasn't a wimp, a scared little boy anymore. 

"Hey, kid-" 

"I'm not a kid!" Why was everyone treating him like a child when he was old enough to train as a witcher? That was unfair, too. He didn't even stop his assault on the dummy to introduce himself; he'd be called _kid_ the next day again anyway. "And I've said I don't need your help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even little Lambert is a prick.


	9. To Hell with Neutrality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 9th// Establishing Character Moment

Their friendship had a rocky start but that didn't mean he couldn't try. Lambert was still angry, snapping at anyone — he was quiet now though as he knocked on the door. He didn't wait for an answer, knowing that it would hardly be anything else than a grunt of _get lost_. 

"How are you doing?" He had to bite back the _kid_ that was already on the tip of his tongue — Lambert despised that almost as much as becoming a witcher. And now he was even more concerned, having heard about the troll a group encountered on the Killer and the aftermath. 

"I'm fine." He clearly wasn't, laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling without even a glance at him. It showed in his performance in sparring and fighting, his lessons in theory and alchemy. _Survivor's guilt_ , some professor at the Oxenfurt Academy dubbed it in a recent publication. 

"You don't need to lie. Don't listen to the old idiots, it's natural to have emotions." He's been saying that to Geralt for a good decade or two whenever he lamented over some short-lived affair with a sorceress. And after all Lambert went through — information pieced together from different sources — his anger, contempt or sorrow was justified; unavoidable. "We're brothers now, Lambert. You'll always have us, you can always come to us. Me and Geralt."


	10. A Path to Go Along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 10// Character titles

This was the first time he truly left Kaer Morhen since his arrival. Geralt was riding ahead of him some; a relief to have some company. He looked back at the keep once more — it might've been the last time he saw the scenery. 

_"You're witchers now."_ The words of the grandmaster still rang in his ear, even though the ceremony of receiving their silver swords was a week ago. _"It's time you set out on the Path many witchers walked before you."_

He asked Geralt what his plans were, and, when it turned out neither of them had much idea, they decided to ride together for a while. It would be safer that way, too. For now, their only vague direction was towards the Pontar valley and whatever job was available in the meantime.


	11. Of Witcher and Their Attributes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 11// Skeleton
> 
> I hope I got it right.

"Neutrality," a witcher too old to ride out on the Path with the coming spring explained in one of their classes, "is a witcher's guiding virtue. A witcher is steadfast against bribes and politics as he is against monsters." 

He tried to catch Geralt's gaze from the other side of the room, rolling his eyes when he did — there was hardly a thing that could be more boring than the role of a witcher in the fight between Chaos and Order. If only they could be outside, with Vesemir in a fencing class — it never felt like enough time that they could spend with sparring or training with swords. Even if those swords were wooden. 

"And though a witcher's positions tethers on a thin edge," the lesson continued in a similarly monotone fashion that now Geralt rolled his eyes at him, "he's a weapon of the Order, getting the world rid of monsters that have no ecological niche. Creatures that are relicts from the Conjunction of Sphares, Chaos manifested and..." It sounded more like religious preaching now than a lesson for witchers. 

* * *

Thinking back to it, maybe that's why they both had such a hard time keeping themselves to that neutrality. Maybe that's why they had more emotions than a witcher should possess, maybe that's why they couldn't escape their Destiny.


	12. Nightly Walks in Magic's Realm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 12// Illusions

The curtain fluttered in the soft breeze, the silver threads shimmering in the stray moonlight that found its way past the closed shutters, no doubt decorated with intricate carvings and inlays. Soft, inviting laughter rang out somewhere farther, tempting him with the promise of otherworldly delight. The fabric, a faithful depiction of the night sky with its glimmering embroidery, danced a hair width away from his outstretched hand — a rogue gust of wind and his fingertips would brush against it. He drew back, fingers dropping onto the hilt of the sword hanging from his hip, hurriedly tucked into his belt — short and not his own; trusted with it upon arrival to Thanedd. 

_Don't mistake the reflection in a pond for the night sky._

He was in Loxia, surrounded by magic, adepts of Aretuza ready to play tricks on anyone for entertainment that the banquet provided for the already accomplished mages and sorceresses. Geralt, though amidst complaints about attire and appearance, cautioned him to not be deceived by looks — and not a word about Ciri. He promised, knowing both from his own right and their unpleasant, strained cooperation with Philippa that, even if the tale cried for a song, it was best pretend he knew nothing. 

_Just an illusion. Keep walking._

A trap set by someone determined, taking advantage of his patronage of the fairer sex — using his friendship to Geralt to get close to the Lion Cub. It happened once but his past saviour had, by the sounds seeping through the windows from Aretuza, more delightful engagements. That, he was certain, wasn't an imitation — conversations with wine, late into summer nights revealed him more than Geralt ever wanted to. 

_Ess've vort shaente aen._

A song forbidden to tell, a song he would only write when it no longer brought peril to anyone — a story that would perhaps be forever forgotten.


	13. Bruxae, the Feminine Terror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 13// In Medias Res

He swore, struggling to his feet from the wreckage of a cart. Blood trickled down his forehead, wiping it off with the back of his hand before diving into the fight again. His hands were slick with blood; whose, he couldn't tell. Growling, he clashed again with the bruxa, slashing open a calf with a low pirouette. It stumbled, spinning around with jaws parted. His fingers bent into the Sign of Quen, bracing himself down on one knee — its scream not enough to shatter the magic barrier. Now furious and injured, the bruxa's attacks were easy to dodge and the silver was singing in his hand with each swing that drained its vitality. Even at the beginning, he knew the fight would drag on — though not expecting to run out of bombs with his own energy depleted by the time its body stilled on the dusty ground.


	14. Tying the (K)not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 14// Semicolon

He knew them both for a while but it was no less a surprise for him. He remembered Keira's disdain when posing the question about a sorceress and a witcher; and he was reminded of Lambert's often grouchy behaviour and sharp tongue daily during the winters. No one could've predicted it. For all the death and destruction the Wild Hunt brought, there was at least something to be happy for. What was perhaps even more surprising, that the relationship lasted more than a few nights after the battle. Maybe it was just attractive two attractive people taking a liking to each other, or maybe the comfort of constant companionship throughout a long life — though in the end, the why or how didn't matter.


	15. Tor Lara, Tor Lara, Tor na Lia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 15// Time loops  
> I went with the Groundhog Day variation.
> 
> Character is a one-off OC & it's slightly canon-divergent.

She shouldn't have taken the dare. If the Conclave and the Supreme Council finds out — and Margarita, oh, she's going to be disappointed. It was too late now though and the portal, encased in a white marble arch, pulsed with activity; a call to step through it. She only broke through the shimmering surface with one hand, trying to find out if it was a safe destination — a soft breeze and water spraying her skin. A rocky beach probably. But before she could decide to step through the portal, her body flung forwards.

* * *

Seagulls circled above her head and she stood on a cliff, water licking at the stone. Her eyes cast about and she could see the bridge between Loxia and Gors Velen in the distance and the grandiose complex that housed the Aretuza Academy. A few flight of stairs, carved into the hillside, and she could be back before curfew. Margarita didn't have to know she stayed out again.

* * *

A flight of stairs up the hill, a tower, Tor Lara, looming above her from closer with each step she took. The top of Thanedd Island was deserted at this hour and date; only a handful of sorceresses living at Aretuza during the year. There were no guards either, only standing watch during the banquette when all sorts of visitors were allowed to wander — it was easy to get inside the tower.

* * *

Seagulls. Salty water. Sun setting behind Tor Lara, painting the sea golden. She had only a few minutes to make it past the gates before curfew. She had to run up the stairs if she wanted to make it. Girls' night, the thought crossed her mind as her shoes clinked on the marbles; the other adepts said something about nicking some leftover wine from the banquette.

* * *

More stairs. Again. She was getting tired. Boring. The pulse of magic. Seagulls. Water. Stairs again. Feminine giggles and the splash of wine in crystal glasses. Stairs. Quiet for a moment. Seagulls and waves attacking the cliffs.

* * *

The potal pulsed with activity but the silence over Tor Lara was replaced by a language fairly unknown to her. Han llinge, the language of elves and magic incantations. She was in another tower, a portal pulsing at her back. She could hear seagulls filtering through, the rumble of sea — but she was no longer in Temeria; no longer doing circles around Thanedd like a moth circling a lamp.


	16. A Road Marked by Arrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 16// Exposition

Birdsong filtering through the forest turned into shrill chirps as a yellow feathered arrow flew through the clearing, lodging into a tree just inches from his head. He heard the whoosh of the second one a second before he saw it, dodging from its way in the nick of time. Dry leaves crunched under his feet, thorns and bogs tore at his clothes. A stream was nearby, murmuring along its course without a care of the pursuit. He heard the shouts, coming from close behind him. Water splashed onto his thigh, soaked his boots as he waded through the stream. 

A few hundred yards away was a tavern, its sounds mixing with what little noise his pursuers made. His breathing was loudest of all, laboured and short of air. He barely caught himself, crashing through the gates to the yard and startling the horses, kicking and neighing in alarm. He wasn't followed onto the open road and to the tavern but a last arrow lodged into the fence post, again inches from where he stood.


	17. A Day in the Life of a Toussaintois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 17// Seven Basic Plots  
> I went for Rags to Riches
> 
> Also, it's only existing because my brother threw me this crack fic idea of "witchers doing pirouettes = good at dancing".

July 17th //7 Basic plots

Even though they weren't orphans, what either of them had now was far beyond their imagination. Maybe not Lambert's. Getting used to the lavish new lifestyles was an adjustment for all three of them, having only known the cold of Kaer Morhen and the unwelcoming discomfort of taverns. Toussaint, even though lying withing the lands of Nilfgaard, saw little of the war; colourful walls, neat rows of tiles and cobbled streets, clean and untouched. And there, among the charming houses in Beauclair, on a square tucked away between to buildings that were more palaces than houses, stood his new home. It was more of a studio with living quarters hidden on the upper floor, while the lower served as practice hall. 

Winning the support of Toussaintois took him longer than Keira and Lambert's business gathering a clientele or restoring the Corvo Bianco winery to its former name — though he suspected it had more to do with the sorceresses' touch than the nature of business. After the few initial hurdles — including Lambert's disbelief that a dance studio lead by a witcher could be a profitable venture — he wasn't lacking in curious visitors and serious students. 

And, when not giving a lesson, he was invited to gatherings and banquets; if not one of his students finding another reason to have him around as some prised possession, then Geralt inviting him over. And while most social functions became boring with their similarities — and weren't much more than thinly veiled bragging about exceptional wines and a reason to get drunk — it would be a lie to say he couldn't find excitement in it. And while none of the noble ladies asking him to be their escort for the night were his preferred succubi, he had no reason for complaints.


	18. A Victory for None

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 18// Canon Divergence
> 
> CW: Charcter death
> 
> No, I don't enjoy making 'em suffer.

"Ciri!" It didn't matter what or who was in his way as he rushed across the courtyard, catching her before her body could hit the ground. The grasp on his arm was weak and only half-lidded emerald eyes gazed up at him. "Ciri. Ciri, please." 

Everything seemed to stop around them — or maybe it stopped. There were no sounds other than laboured breath, the scrape of fingers against his beard and his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears. There was a faint smile on her lips, a sign of acceptance that stubbornly eluded him. 

"Geralt..." She coughed up blood, though far less she was losing through the wound on her side. His hand was covered in it, trying to buy some more time — time they had precious little of. _Why wasn't anyone helping?!_ "Thank you. For being my father." 

"Ciri, don't..." He couldn't finish the sentence; there wasn't much point now. _Rain?_ He watched as the dirty white of the blouse was splattered; his own tears, he realised when tasting the salt of them roll down his cheek. He wanted to call out to Yen to do something, for Triss to help, to blame Eredin but the only sound he managed was an ugly sob.


	19. Inspiration from the Worst Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 19// Left off sentences

"...like that." Dandelion defended some stance; what about he didn't know, stepping too late into the tavern. He would soon enough though, once the poet noticed him and joined him by his table. "Ah, Geralt! How good to see you." 

He offered a grunt of a reply, assuring him that the chance encounter was to his delight, too — even if it wasn't. He liked the poet, a good friends and resourceful in many of their adventures — but as often he benefitted from his companionship, the poet inevitably attracted some troubles along the way. 

"I was wondering... Geralt, do you even listen?" He was, though it could seem he was more occupied with his bowl of soup than whatever Dandelion was about the propose — he was always thinking about something, always having ideas. He nodded for him to continue. "So, as I said, I was wondering if..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm back now after not having the opportunity to post for the previous prompts but I have now all (ch.12 to ch.19) up.


End file.
